Teen Wolf Summer Exchange
by kototyph
Summary: 2014. Three separate fills.
1. Bluecorn Moon (TV Host AU)

**Title** : Bluecorn Moon  
 **Author** : **kototyph**  
 **Pairing/Characters** : Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski  
 **Rating** : PG  
 **Word Count** : 2364  
 **Warnings/Tags** : Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Werewolves Exist in Secret, Wildlife Conservation, Show Business, Hero Worship, One-Sided Attraction, at least for now  
 **Summary** : "The eastern timber wolf, also known as the Great Lakes wolf, is a canid native to the northeastern side of North America's Great Lakes region," Derek says gravely, face stern for the camera. "It's a medium-sized species, which, like the red _wmmph—"_  
 **Notes** : Originally posted here for yomikoda and the 2014 Teen Wolf Summer Exchange.

* * *

"The eastern timber wolf, also known as the Great Lakes wolf, is a canid native to the northeastern side of North America's Great Lakes region," Derek says gravely, face stern for the camera. "It's a medium-sized species, which, like the red w _mmph—_ "

"Cut," Finstock groans, hand over his eyes. "Oh God, cut, _cut._ Christ on toast, _why_."

"I am so, so sorry," Stiles says, gripping his whistle hard enough for the plastic to cut into his fingers. "They're normally a lot shyer than this, I didn't think they'd…" He gestures helplessly at the wriggling mound of fur and wagging tails obscuring Derek from view. "I thought they'd calm down after a while?"

He's heard from other zoos that the host of _Wolves Among Us_ had a way with animals that defied description, but none of them had any stories close to _this._ As soon as Derek got in the enclosure, the pack had been on him like he was the second coming of Timberwolf Jesus.

"What the hell did you _do_?" Finstock yells at his star, brandishing a clipboard. "Take a bath in bacon grease and deer piss?"

Derek, toppling slowly backwards under a crush of eager, whining wolves, gets one arm up above the fray and gestures rudely. " _This is not my fault_ ," he says, or tries to.

On the other side of the fence, the three cameramen— camerapeople _,_ no one is going to mistake that chick in half a shirt and cherry-red lipstick for a dude— are snickering amongst themselves, already resetting for a tenth or fifteenth take. Finstock drops his head in the hands, aiming a bleak stare at the ground, and Stiles is a little afraid to look at his boss right now. He can practically feel his performance review tanking.

"C'mon, guys," he says coaxingly but without much hope to the pack, shaking a stained tray of miscellaneous ungulate parts. "Leave the nice man alone, please?"

He gets a few interested stares and licked chops, and dares to edge closer. Derek's battered boots, almost the only thing visible, kick spasmodically.

"Hey, _morons_ ," Stiles calls, and grabs a bloody steak to pitch in the opposite direction of the cameras. Two of the wolves jump after it, leaving three plus the pups. Geez, even the little guys are out of the den; Derek must have some _serious_ mojo. "Look, flying meat! Catch it while the catching's good!"

He pleads and bribes, and eventually, only regal matriarch Miskwà and her brood are left suffocating their guest. The old wolf is being unusually persistent in her attempts to groom Derek's windswept hair into something even less flattering, but allows herself to be nudged to the side when Stiles reaches Derek's prone body. When he offers Derek a hand up, the man stares at his bloody fingers and gives him a look that singes.

"Thanks," Derek says sarcastically, levering himself up. "You think you can keep them under control from now on?"

"Yeah, we'll— we'll keep the pups here, but close the gate between the enclosures," Stiles says, stung.

"Good," Derek growls. "Now get out of the shot."

Stiles opens his mouth to tell him he doesn't have to be so rude about it, and Finstock yells, "Get out of my shot!" from the fence.

"I'm going, I'm going," Stiles mutters, and stomps away to help Scott with the gate.

They meet back at the ATV in a few minutes, Deaton sitting in the driver's seat, eyes on the daily feeding schedule and radio in hand. "I told you you'd be disappointed," he says without looking up.

"Yeah, well," Stiles says shortly. He'd lobbied long and hard with both the zoo management and producers of the show to have Derek out here, filming with their rehabilitated packs for a few days. It was good publicity, he'd argued. Derek Hale was the _rockstar_ of conservationists, hipper than Jeff Corwin with less bugs than Bear Grylls and the cult following of Steve Irwin (God rest his khaki-clad soul). How was Stiles supposed to know that Derek— hot, chronically-shirtless Derek Hale, the guy who'd single-handedly saved the Yucatan subspecies of the Mexican wolf from extinction and one of the major reasons Stiles had gone into conservation studies— was all those things and also a raging asshole with entitlement issues? "Laugh it up, bossman."

"Maybe he's just having a bad day," Scott says optimistically, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Maybe life crushes all our dreams and then we die," Stiles says moodily.

Deaton smiles at them, benevolent in his apparent omniscience. "I suspect the truth, as it often does, lies somewhere in the middle."

Stiles scowls at the film crew, at Derek, crouched next to Miskwà with a hand on her haunches. "So he's only half the jackass I think he is. Great."

Derek's voice is faint but audible over the drowsy buzz of cicadas. "The eastern timber wolf is of a reddish-brown coloration and is intermediate in size between the coyote and gray wolf. It primarily preys on white-tailed deer, but may occasionally attack moose and beaver," he says, and makes a hilariously disgusted face when Miskwà licks broadly over his neck and ear.

"Cut!" Finstock yells despairingly.

They move on from the wolf exhibit sometime midafternoon, thank God, and the rest of the day seems to go better. The camerapeople are whispering gleefully amongst themselves about gag reels and Derek has a permaglower that doesn't budge, even when the fox kits are out and fawning all over his feet. The _fox kits._ They're _three weeks old._ The man is a canid specialist, how can he not melt over that?

"I don't think he's smiled once since he got here," Stiles tells Miskwà, who's loitering by the fence while she cleans tonight's snack from her paws. It's well past sundown but still bright; the moon is bursting-full, and there's a silvery sheen to the grassy meadows of the enclosure. "I know we're not the fanciest wildlife park out there, but he could still— hey!"

Miskwà finishes her long, wide yawn and gets to her feet, ambling away from him towards the den.

" _Fine_ ," he grumbles, tugging her tray back under the fence. "Take his side. See if I bring you any more midnight snacks."

It's not quite midnight, but it's close, and the majority of the day staff left a while ago. Scott's still around, but that's because Stiles is his ride and Kira, she of the long hair and "God, her eyes, Stiles, they're like _stars in the firmament_ —", also tends to stay late. The two of them are at the staff center, probably canoodling over grant proposals and feed catalogues, so Stiles doesn't feel the least bit guilty over playing hooky by the wolf pens.

He leaves the tray in the ATV walks down along the fence, aimless, trailing fingers over the cold chain link. He listens to the happy yelps and half-barks of the pack and smiles to himself; they've been energetic all day, and it sounds like a real party out there tonight. Maybe Jerkass Hale is good for something after all.

It's a cold twenty minutes down the hill towards the river before the tire tracks he's walking along dead-end in the mess the camera crew left this morning, complete with couple half-empty water bottles and a Snickers wrapper. Stiles makes a face and stoops to collect them, because really? Really?

He's turns in a slow circle, squinting suspiciously into the shadows under the low scrub for any more litter, when his eyes catch on an oddly rectangular shape half-hidden by a bush a few feet away. It's hard to tell in the low light, but it looks like—

"A shirt?" he mutters to himself, holding it up. One that had been neatly folded before he knelt down and grabbed it. Under it, there's a pair of boxers. On top of jeans. On top of a strangely familiar leather jacket. On top of shoes, with socks neatly rolled and stuffed into them.

Stiles turns to stare at the enclosure, where the wolves have started howling frenetically.

He grabs the clothes and shoes and shoves himself up, yanking at the strap that holds his short-range radio on his belt. "Stupid fucking— Scott!" he yells into the freed speaker. "We've got someone in the wolf pen!"

There's a couple seconds of static as Stiles beats it back up the trail to the ATV, then, " _What? Uh, I mean, please repeat, over."_

"We've got a Never Cry Wolf situation on our hands, over!"

 _"_ _A what? Over."_

"The one with the naturalist dude and he gets naked and going running around the— you know what," Stiles pants, "whatever. I found some clothes on the ground and I'm pretty sure someone's inside the enclosure, Miskwà's pack is loud as fuck—"

The howls are getting even louder, and out of the corner of his eye, Stiles see something loping towards the chainlink fence. It's too fast, too dark to be a guy in his birthday suit, but it's also way too goddamn tall to be one of the wolves. "Holy shit!"

 _"_ _Stiles? Stiles!"_

"Can't, ah, talk, tryna _run_ ," Stiles gasps, dropping the arm with the radio so he can sprint the last couple hundred feet to the ATV.

Something hits the fence and it bows outward, just ahead of Stiles. He doesn't have enough air to scream, so the noise he makes is more a wispy yip of surprise. The same something _growls_ , and Stiles is jamming his hands into the backseat of the ATV and snapping open the latched case of the tranq gun, grabbing it and a handful of tags weighed for use on the wolves.

He fires before he really sees what he's aiming at, which is probably for the best. _It,_ whatever it is, is halfway over the fence and barely seems to notice the tiny feathered needle sticking out of its shoulder. And it is a _shoulder_ , attached to a human-looking arm, ending in clawed fingers that are also disturbingly humanlike. Its face, though, that muzzle, those _teeth—_

Stiles is actually, non-hypothetically starring in his own horror movie, and he's not doing as well as he thought he would.

 _"_ _Stiles! What the hell, man? Are you okay?"_ Scott yells from the radio.

"I am _not_ going to be the one that dies in the opening credits, you fucker!" Stiles yells at the creature, reloading the tranq gun as fast as he can and bringing it back up to his shoulder.

He gets it in the stomach this time, and it drops to the ground on his side of the fence on all fours before standing up on its haunches. It's big, holy shit, so fucking big and Stiles edges to keep the ATV between them, reloading blind while he watches it come closer.

Another tag to the stomach, and before Stiles can drop the gun again it lunges at him over the ATV with a nightmare fuel open-mouthed snarl. He tries to jump aside, knocks into the front bumper on the way down and lands on his stomach, stunned immobile for a split-second before army-crawling as far under the ATV as fast as he can.

The ATV itself gets tossed, flipping a couple times before settling crooked on its rollbar in front of him. Something with a bonecrushing grip closes around his ankle and drags him back. _"Fuck—!"_

He twists up and stabs the whole fistful of tranq darts he still has into the thing's thickly-furred chest, even when his field of vision is filled with bared teeth and piercingly yellow eyes. The monster now has officially enough fentanyl swimming in its bloodstream to knock out an elephant, and if Stiles could just get free, just keep it moving another few minutes—

"Stop," it hisses through fangs the length of Stiles' fingers, " _running._ You idiot. _"_

"Holy fuck," Stiles says weakly.

Claws swipe clumsily at the depressed syringes still sticking out of its fur, which is… rapidly retreating? Stiles stares, a little nauseated as it sinks away, leaving a bare human chest and stomach. The monster is ripped. Stiles is distantly ashamed that he notices, considering he's probably about to die.

The creature angles its head down, shakes like a dog coming out of the water, and Stiles is suddenly being pinned to the ground by a man to looks a lot like Derek Hale. If Derek Hale liked to run naked through moonlit fields and had recently been shot full of fast-acting narcotics.

"Derek?" Stiles says cautiously. Just to be sure.

"You _stupid—_ what th'fuck'is in th'se things?" Derek says, smearing through half the words and starting to sway. His elbows give out, and he lands face-first in Stiles' lap. Stiles sits up rather hurriedly.

"Wait, what are you— Derek!"

The man doesn't move, though he does grumble, " _Idiot."_

"Uh, okay?" Stiles says, hands hovering over his back. "Are you… what's going on?"

Stiles' heart is still beating so hard his pulse is a throbbing weight in his mouth, but Derek shows no signs of reverting to a ravening monster. He's a deadweight across Stiles' legs, completely human-shaped and still.

And naked. So very, very naked.

 _"_ _Stiles, just hold on. You have the ATV, it's going to take me half an hour, but I'm coming, okay?"_ comes Scott's tinny voice from the radio, invisible in the long grass around them.

"Are you some kind of werewolf thing?" Stiles blurts out, and Derek slowly rotates his head so he can aim a stony glare past Stiles' ear.

"No."

"You're— you're fucking messing with me," Stiles says disbelievingly. "You are. I saw you! You tried to kill me!"

Derek closes his eyes. "Wasn't going to kill you. An' no one's going to believe… 'm a werewolf," he says, words coming fainter.

"You— fuck." Stiles looks up at the upside-down ATV, the bowed-out fence, the gear scattered throughout the grass. "Scott will believe me, he'll… Derek?"

No response. Stiles shifts experimentally, and Derek doesn't stir.

"Scott will believe me," Stiles says more firmly. "And personally, jackass? I'd rather people thought I was a werewolf than a guy who runs around naked on a full moon."


	2. All the Queen's Horses (Princes AU)

**Title** : All the Queen's Horses  
 **Author** : **kototyph**  
 **Pairing/Characters** : Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski  
 **Rating** : PG-13  
 **Word Count** : 1943  
 **Warnings/Tags** : Alternate Universe - HistoricalCrack Treated SeriouslyArranged MarriagePrinces & PrincessesForced Crossdressing  
 **Summary** : "You," Stiles says. "You… are not Lady Cora."  
"No," the prince in his bed answers.  
 **Notes** : Originally posted here for ilokheimsins and the 2014 Teen Wolf Summer Exchange.

* * *

"You," Stiles says. "You… are not Lady Cora."

"No," the prince in his bed answers.

The _prince_. Not the princess. Stiles takes another slow step forward, feet sinking deep into luxurious carpets. "You… were never Cora," he hazards.

Derek's glare continues unabated. "No."

"This entire evening…" Stiles has a sudden, terrible realization, so terrible it makes him throw out a hand and clutch at a spiraling post of the tester. "This entire _day._ You weren't— when they didn't lift the veil, I thought it was some kind of northlands custom, but—"

"Technically, it is."

"I said vows to you!" Stiles exclaims. "We're— gods, we're married!"

" _We_ are not married," Derek insists. He's oddly adamant for someone still clutching that pearl-weighted veil, dressed head to toe in fluttering white and kneeling in the middle of a bed strewn with rose petals. " _You_ are married to Cora. When she returns to the palace, the agreement will be finalized and you will have your alliance."

"She's not even here?" Stiles says, voice cracking at the end like he's years younger. "How? Why?"

Derek folds his arms, and the satin bodice straining across his chest pops a series of stitches. "She disappeared sometime this morning, along with my elder sister and cousin," he says. Now that his face and form aren't obscured by the damn veil, his features are absurdly masculine. The wedding dress too is ill-fitting to the point of hilarity; his arms bulge against the dress' seams and his b bared shoulders are as broad as a carthorse's. Two hard, round objects have been stuffed down the neck to approximate a bustline, and Stiles finds the unyielding heft of them perversely mesmerizing.

While he's absorbed in the spectacle, Derek talks on. "She hadn't been found by the time of your arrival, and this union is too important to waste on some childish fit of pique. I was… _nominated…_ to take her place. For the time being." His scowl deepens. "You were not supposed find out about any of this."

"She ran away," Stiles says hollowly.

"She is temporary unavailable," Derek counters.

"She _ran away,"_ Stiles says, louder, spinning and pacing away from the foot of the bed. "Along with the only other members of the royal family who might have easily replaced her. She probably never intended to marry me in the first place! Howexactlywere you planning on keeping that a secret?"

"We've been managing well enough," Derek snaps, though he's finally starting to sound a little embarrassed, fingers clenched in the tulle of his gown. "No one beyond my mother and uncle knows, and she has gone after the girls to remind them of their obligations. Peter found an accomplished _cortigiana_ to approximate a wedding night—"

" _Gods,_ " Stiles yelps, spinning to face him, "you did _what?"_

Maybe there's a streak of shame in the man after all; Derek is having trouble meeting his eyes. "She's in an adjacent chamber," he admits, clearly uncomfortable. "Waiting on my signal."

Stiles' head is swimming with their handsfasting wine, and a strange, creeping sense of disappointment. He hadn't clung to hopes of romance in this treaty-marriage, but even though they've never met in person, he likes and respects the princess. Of the suits available to him in the small, incestuous royal court, he'd counted Cora among the least painful prospects. To know she'd rather abandon her home, and that the royal family was so bloody-minded they'd dress their son in bridal rags— "If I hadn't left the feast right after you, there would have been a courtesan waiting for me? On my _wedding night?"_

"Of course it sounds awful, when you put it like that," Derek mutters.

"Gods," Stiles says again, and allows himself to collapse into an armchair by the low fire. "Awful is one word, yes."

"She would have been very good to you," Derek offers.

Gods, he takes it back, the man is shameless, _shameless._ "Oh, I'm sure she's a consummate professional!" Stiles says with an edge of hysterical laughter. "I'm sure it would have been everything I could have wanted! Apart from actual consummation of my marriage, of course."

He drops his face into his hands. There's a supremely awkward silence, filled with nothing but the soft crackle of burning wood.

After a moment, tulle rustles in the quiet. "I… I should go," Derek says stiffly.

Stiles lifts his head to stare at him. "Go?"

Now the man outright refuses to meet Stiles' eyes, preferring instead to pluck at the lacy edges of the veil. "To change," he says shortly. "And, now that it's no longer necessary, to relieve Dame Reyes of her duty."

 _"Duty."_

"Yes, _duty,"_ Derek says, eyes snapping up. He plants a hand in the plush coverlet and leans on it, petals pooling in the hollow around his fingers. "Duty to my family and the throne, which Cora abused and I had to make up for by putting on this ridiculous costume and letting you drag me around the dancing hall half the night like a prize sheep! Who taught you to dance, the village scarecrow?"

"Oranges," Stiles says bemusedly.

Derek squints at him. _"What?"_

"Your breasts," Stiles elaborates, "are orange-fruits. It's been bothering me. Whose idea was that?"

"They—" Derek sputters, and his ears flush unexpectedly and fantastically red. "It was what was at hand!"

Derek is a recalcitrant member of high society, Stiles knows. Reserved to the point of dourness, absent from parties and politics alike. Cora had referred to him in her letters as the maiden aunt she never wanted, and the gods know when Derek had visited the freeholdings as Queen Talia's emissary he'd made a complete enough ass of himself.

Under his bluster, though, he's always seemed like a decent person. And Scott likes him, strangely enough.

"I am not married to the princess," Stiles says with finality, and Derek's eyes narrow. "My father won't accept anything about this farce as binding to her. I am definitely, however, married to _you_."

"Lord Stilinski—"

"You _married_ me," Stiles says, thinking aloud now. "You married me in front of queen and country. That's how he'll see it. And, Derek, this could actually be a good thing."

" _Stiles—"_

"It could be perfect!" Stiles says, jumping out of the chair. "The ideal political marriage, really. Neither of us have the slightest interest in each other's affairs—"

"Marriage without consummation is grounds for succession crises and forced annulment," Derek protests, sitting back on his heels. "We can't."

"Can't what? Consummate?" Stiles spreads his arms. "At this point, I'm willing. I was ready to try with Cora, who I've never met and who would apparently rather leave the country, and _you_ were ready to send in a courtesan. How could this possibly be any worse?"

Derek gives him a flat stare. "Well, when you frame it that way," he says with heavy sarcasm.

"As if you have better prospects," Stiles scoffs. Cora had made good sport of that. "If you're so devoted to doing your duty, this would be by far the easiest way to conclude your damned alliance."

Derek frowns; thoughtfully, Stiles hopes, though he can't be sure. "Marriage between men is… rare."

"Not in the freeholdings, which your queen is so eager to ally with she approved _this_ ," Stiles says, waving at Derek's pearls and lace. "Do you really think she'll balk now?"

He's been pressing steadily closer as he speaks, and now he gets a knee on the bed and grabs Derek's shoulders. "If you're squeamish, we'll just mess up the room," he coaxes. "Rip this hideous dress and my shirt at little. Go to the antechamber and I'll, ah, add some additional realism—"

Derek blinks up at him. "How?"

"How—? I'm going to, you know." Stiles gestures at the front of his trousers.

The red flush from earlier is creeping steadily inwards. "Ah," Derek says, somewhat strangled. "Realism. I see."

"You should to, probably," Stiles says, still thinking. "We could leave marks on each other."

"Marks?"

Stiles presses a finger to the side of Derek's neck, just under his pulsepoint. It's beating strangely quickly, given the most strenuous thing he's seen the man do is shift his weight. "A kiss-mark," he explains. "Haven't you ever had one?"

"No," Derek says, leaning back. "I've never been kissed so hard it left a _mark_."

Stiles eyes him dubiously. "Have you ever been kissed at all?"

"What kind of question is that?" Derek asks with clear affront. "Of course I have!"

Balancing on one knee is getting awkward, so Stiles slides into a sitting position on the bed next to him. "Have you ever done more than kiss someone?" he asks. He's suddenly quite curious. The man _is_ wearing white.

Derek lifts his chin. The fussy veil droops, clinging half-pinned to his short hair. "I don't see that it matters to this discussion."

"It matters, because," and here Stiles starts to ease close again, "if you're _not_ squeamish, we could—"

But Derek has a hand slapped over Stiles' mouth before it gets anywhere near his own. "You seem to have a very high opinion of yourself," he says dryly. "I haven't agreed to any of this."

Stiles rolls his eyes as emphatically as possible.

"Stiles," Derek says with the start of a forbidding glower, and Stiles pulls his hand away impatiently.

"It's a good idea. Admit it."

"It's an idea worth considering," Derek says pedantically, sitting back on the bed. "Not jumping into head-first with no thought given to what might happen."

"I have no thoughts to give," Stiles says, following him on his hands and knees. "Really. I gave them all to marrying Cora, and honestly, I don't see how this would be much different. That must even be her dress you're wearing, it's _tiny_."

Derek looks down at himself and sighs, hands going behind his head to fumble with the buttons there. "I have no idea where they found this thing, actually."

"Then just tear it. You already tore your sleeves open," Stiles points out.

Derek's eyes drop to the gaping holes he's left under each arm. "I suppose you're right."

"Here, let me help," Stiles says, grabbing for the collar.

"I can get it myself," Derek protests, jerking away. Satin rips between them, and oranges roll out onto the mattress. "Oh, wonderful. My thanks for that."

"There's still plenty of dress to go," Stiles says, tugging the lace down Derek's arms.

At the far side of the room, the door opens.

Stiles eyes snap up to meet those of the Queen of the Northlands, still bedecked in her mother-of-the-bride finery. Under his hands, Derek freezes.

"… good evening," she says with aplomb. "We were getting rather worried, but I see you two have worked things out between you."

"Mother," Derek starts in protest, "this isn't—"

"I'll just leave you to it," the queen says, already backing out of the room. "Felicitations!"

"Mother! Wait!"

The door shuts. Stiles stares at the wood for a moment before turning and looking at Derek, who is clutching the torn bodice of the gown to his chest with a look of growing horror.

"I suppose that settles it?" Stiles offers.

Derek turns his horror-struck look on Stiles.

"Yes?"

"… gods help me."

Stiles leans in with a growing grin. "Yes?"

Derek slowly collapses back on the bed, hand over his eyes. " _Fine_ , you insufferable— get off me!"

"Dearest darling husband sweet," Stiles coos, and actually feels Derek shudder in disgust. "I find I'm strangely looking forward to all of this."

"I married a madman," Derek groans.

"Yes, you did," Stiles says. "And as your lawfully-wedded groom, I feel we should revisit the issue of kiss-marks."


	3. couldn't ever get enough (Schmoop)

**Title** : couldn't ever get enough  
 **Author** : **kototyph**  
 **Pairing/Characters** : Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski  
 **Rating** : R  
 **Word Count** : 1114  
 **Warnings/Tags** : Got Together, Morning After, Romance, Coffee, Past Tense Pining, Derek in Sweaters, Ugly Sweaters  
 **Summary** : Stiles' warm, slightly bony pillow is being eased out from under his ear. Slowly and carefully, yes, with a hand under his head to keep it steady, but the fact remains that his pillow is moving and that is wholly and totally unacceptable.  
 **Notes** : Originally posted on tumblr for fauvistfly and the 2014 Teen Wolf Summer Exchange.

* * *

Stiles' warm, slightly bony pillow is being eased out from under his ear. Slowly and carefully, yes, with a hand under his head to keep it steady, but the fact remains that his pillow is moving and that is wholly and totally unacceptable.

"No," he mumbles, wiggling forward until his forehead is pressed into a shoulder again. "Mmm."

"Stiles." He's pretty sure his pillow is laughing at him, now. "My arm?"

"Nnm. No."

The pillow and the shoulder shake. Definitely laughing. "But I need it."

"Nuh-uh."

"I promise I'll be right back." Unbelievably, the pillow starts moving again. When vague noises of disapproval fail to stop its progress, Stiles latches on and refusing to let go. Even when it sighs and mumbles, "Coffee, Stiles. I need coffee."

"No, don't," Stiles answers, more towards wakefulness in general than the idea of coffee.

"I also need to piss."

"No."

Another quiet laugh, and someone plants a stubbly kiss to the side of his nose. "Come downstairs when you're awake."

His pillow is extracted, despite Stiles' continuing inarticulate protests, and the solid body beside him disappears from the bed completely. It leaves behind a warm hollow that Stiles rolls into with a deeply aggrieved noise.

Footsteps pad away, and hinges creak as the closet door opens, and a few moments later, closes. The door to the hallway opens, too, but stays open, and the footsteps fall out of earshot.

The room on the other side of his closed eyelids is bright but cold on his suddenly-exposed skin, something that makes him screw up his face and wiggle deeper into the cocoon of flannel and quilted cotton he's made. It would be better if he still had his pillow. Where did it say it was going again?

"Hngah?" he asks the room.

No answer.

Stiles risks cracking open an eye and _blind,_ he's blind, the sunlight is evil and awful and must be avoided at all costs. "Nngh," he whines, pulling his face back under the covers and curling there resentfully. Stupid pillow.

He would have liked to drift again, but he has this nagging, nudging feeling that there's something he's missing— something he's supposed to be doing, something that's happened that he should be paying attention to.

It's still probably fifteen minutes later before he suddenly freezes in bed, eyes flying open to stare in shock at the open door. " _Derek_. Oh my god."

He can't find his underwear so he drags his comforter off the bed with him, draping the thick, heavy goosedown over his head and wrapping it around his body. He nearly trips over the duvet doing down the stairs, and it's _cold_ and _even more_ sunny down here, and he regrets ever leaving the bed almost immediately. But Derek.

Derek, who's standing and frowning down at the coffee pot as it gurgles and drips its way towards fullness, yesterday's five o'clock shadow verging into true beard territory. He's wearing Stiles' boxers and a bulky handknit monstrosity of a holiday sweater Stiles distinctly remembers being buried at the bottom of his closet. Even on Derek, the sleeves are bunched up at his elbows and the hem droops past his thighs.

"Hey," Stiles says, smiling helplessly.

Derek glances up, and an answering smile slowly spreads across his face. "Hey," he says, and opens his arms invitingly.

"That sweater's horrific," Stiles says, instead of _how are you real_ , and steps up to him. Derek's arms loop around his waist, easy as anything, and Stiles is pulled in tight against the ugly sweater. Exactly where he wants to be, even if it is horrific. "Ugh, my eyes are watering."

"It was the only one that looked like it might fit," Derek says, nosing into the crease between Stiles' neck and shoulder. His beard tickles. "Didn't want to run into your dad in just my underwear."

"Probably should have grabbed your own boxers, then." Not that Stiles minds. They're deliciously tight on him. He leans in a little more, hands sneaking out of the comforter to slide over body-warm cotton and elastic, and a little under. Nothing's going to happen in his dad's kitchen, but a boy can dream.

Derek yips and twists, and that plus their combined weight makes him stumble back against the counter. "Hey!"

"Oh, really?" Stiles says, wiggling his fingers and feeling Derek twitch. "I seem to remember Danny getting a lot more handsy than this with that Halloween costume a couple weeks ago."

Derek sighs. "For the last time, it was a really difficult costume to get into, Stiles, he wasn't—"

"He made batcave innuendo for ten straight minutes. He literally asked if your batmobile was ready for action— _while_ buckling your utility belt."

"I… wasn't he talking about the Camaro?"

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Babe. No."

Derek raises his eyebrows right back, smoothing his hands up and down Stiles' duvet-covered back. "Babe?"

Stiles licks his lips. "Honey? Darling? Sweetie? Dear?"

"I was just getting used to dude," Derek says dryly, but his eyelids have shyly dipped and Stiles is delighted to see the beginnings of pink spreading across his nose.

"Dudebabe," Stiles says solemnly. "Like dudebro, but a hundred times better."

Derek makes a face. "Ugh, that's awful."

"Awful is watching you get hit on by every lonely soccer mom and redblooded gay man in this town, for _years,_ " Stiles says semi-seriously. "Even if you were completely oblivious." Derek's obliviousness was the only saving grace of the whole situation, really.

Derek stares at him. "Are you— do you have any idea how many people flirt with you a week? Everywhere we go, there are these weirdoes popping out of the woodwork, asking you out on 'study' dates or— for help with their stupid tumbling page—"

"What, Walt? He's a sweet kid, he wasn't—"

"He was," Derek growls, "he was breathing down your neck and you _never noticed."_

"Well, of course not!" Stiles protests. "I was already—"

"… you were already?" Derek prompts, softly, after Stiles bites back what he was going to say, hiding his suddenly hot face in the awful sweater.

"Already pretty gone on you," Stiles admits, mumbling the words. "I'm so freaking glad we figured it out. I was dying over here."

Derek's hand up comes to grip his neck, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. "Stiles. Look at me?"

Stiles really, really doesn't want to, but he makes himself lift his head and open his eyes.

"Oh, god, stop looking at me like that," he says reflexively, and Derek's almost unbearably tender expression melts just a little more. Stiles swallows, and doesn't look away.

He's rewarded with a soft, soft closed-mouthed kiss and Derek's hushed and reverent, "Love you too."


End file.
